Grifter Beyond
by King of 2211
Summary: "I'm not much of a hero. Who am I you ask? Name's Zach Griffin, but you'll come to know me . . . as the Grifter . . .". OCxOC. T for violence, language and blood.


**Yo, what up JL archive? King here again, but now doing a completely different fic than Legend of the Seeker. This is the start of the first, or maybe just one of the very few, stories to star the gun-towing telepath; Grifter. Yes, I know, Grif is a Wildstorm character and has only recently entered DC through the New 52 storyline, but I'm hoping to inspire anyone who's read anything Wildstorm related (or at least seen the WildCats animated series) to add more fics with Wildstorm characters. For those who may wonder, I'm coinciding this with the Batman Beyond series done by a good friend of mine; Nomad88. I had to have his permission first and foremost, and now that I have it, let the show begin!**

**Disclaimer: Like my good friend, Nomad, I OWN NOTHING! EVERYTHING BUT OCs BELONGS TO DC!**

* * *

**Prologue: Interrogation**

**Neo-Blüdhaven PD: Year 2042**

Walking through the nearly overcrowded Police Headquarters was **Captain David Lane **(no relation to retired veteran reporter **Lois Lane** of Neo-Metropolis) a tall, well-built man wearing a grey long-sleeved shirt with a gun holster, white coat, and black pants and boots. The man himself appeared to be middle-aged, give or take mid-fifties who stood about 6 feet tall with short reddish-brown hair, tan skin and faded green eyes. He turned to his right and entered a small observation room with two more high-ranked officers. Looking through the one-way mirror into the interrogation room, he saw a young man who appeared to be in his early twenties wearing a badly ripped black long-sleeved shirt, brown cargo pants, and brown boots. It was hard to tell how tall he was since both his arms were restrained to the chair he was sitting on, but from the looks of things; he had a nicely muscular upper body, chiseled square jaw, messy shoulder-length blonde hair, and crystal-blue eyes. His appearance, despite his torn clothing and bruised up face, his left eye swelled up bruise, would have the ladies swooning over him. He remained silent, his face passive and emotionless as he scanned the room he was in; almost as though it was a common activity. On a table within the observation room with the following contents: variety of gadgets that it was hard to tell, three belt-like objects, two gun like weapons that looked as though they belonged in a Star Trek series, a collapsible baton, and a red face mask with one-way lenses and black lines over both eyes that stopped below the chin. But the one thing that had his full attention was the sword, a straight-bladed Japanese Katana. Odd, weren't Japanese blades curved?

"Great timing as usual Cap." The officer remarked, a personal file in hand.

He kept his glance on the bound youth when he asked, "Alright, who do we have?"

"**Zachary Griffin**, goes by the name "**Griff**" rather than "Zach"; Age: 21; Date of Birth: Unknown, but estimated to be October 25; Family: Unknown. Grew up in an orphanage and Juvenile Hall in Gotham City til the age of 18, then got a job as a janitor at a local law firm here in Blüdhaven. Growing up, he showed signs of anti-social behavior and besides causing so much trouble for everyone, adult and child alike at the orphanage, he's been charged with the following: breaking and entering, minor assault, theft and robbery, and sending a few guys that tried to mug him to the hospital. Found him barely alive outside what was left of the condemned cannery along with members of the **Sons of Anarky**, led by **Alexander** **Machin**; son of the original **Anarky Lonnie Machin**, though he wasn't part of the body count. It's currently unknown what happened or the cause, but it seems that there was an explosion."

"Anything Else?"

"Well, aside from his weird sense of fashion, he apparently calls himself the . . . "**Grifter**"?"

"The hell kinda name is that?"

"Not sure. But after some cross-referencing, we were able to find out that there was a guy with the same name . . . during the Golden Age."

The captain looked at the other officer incredulously, "Golden Age? Of heroes?"

This question went unanswered when the door to the interrogation room opened and a middle-aged man in a business suit and holding a briefcase in hand entered. He had dark-mocha colored skin, short ebony-black hair, neatly trimmed mustache and hazelnut colored eyes. The young man, Griff, merely kept his emotionless glance as he watched the man place his briefcase on the table and took a seat across from him. Opening the briefcase, the man took out a sort of box like device and placed it to the right corner, then pressed a button that made the device float up in the air. The young man was certain this was to record the conversation that was about to take place, evident when he saw a police officer enter the room and stand in the corner. Not exactly Good Cop/Bad Cop, but obviously he was there for when things got out of hand. The hard stare the cop gave the young man certainly proved it.

"Good evening, Mr. Griffin-"

"Griff." The young man interjected, his voice low and scratchy.

"I beg your pardon?" The older man asked.

"I prefer to be called "Griff", please."

"Alright then, Griff, my name if Dr. Garrison Holt. Do you know why you're here?"

"It's because of the cannery, I know, they should've left me to die . . ."

This made the Dr. raise an eyebrow. "Why is that?"

Griff merely shrugged. "No family, no friends, barely any money for ends meet, nothing to support myself. I've got absolutely nothing in this life."

"I see, nonetheless, "

"Well, seeing as you're not doing the whole Good Cop/Bad Cop crap, what the hell. Fire away."

Dr. Holt nodded as he took out a few sheets of paper.

"From the reports, there were many members of the Sons of Anarky-"

"The so-called "**Voices of the People**", what a load of slag." Griff remarked.

Ignoring the remark, the Dr. continued reading. "-There were also people around who claimed to have heard shouting and sounds of gunfire within the cannery right before it blew up. May I ask what had happened?"

"Why not ask any of the SoAs?"

"Because those who weren't in a catatonic state have either suffered major concussions or in deep shock of what had happened."

"Which is why you're asking me, because I'm the one who appears to be in better shape." Griff deduced.

"Precisely." Dr. Holt nodded.

Apparently being fed up with the quiet mood, the officer in the corner advanced to the table, which didn't go unnoticed by the young blonde.

"Before soldier boy here says anything, no, I didn't cause that explosion." Griff stated, making the cop stop in his tracks. "But I do know who did."

"Can you please elaborate?" Dr. Holt Asked politely.

"Maybe, not entirely sure you'll believe what I have to say though."

"Why's that?"

"Before I get to that, let me tell you a few things." Griff said, his gaze directed to the one-way mirror. "The Police Captain in there is thinking that it's a complete waste of time trying to get answers from a kid."

This made Dr. Holt and the cop raise an eyebrow, as well as everyone in the observation room. But the Cap. had a completely different expression; one of surprise. It was true, he did think the whole interrogation was a waste of time since the young man wasn't even part of the SoA, but how'd he know he was thinking that?

"If that's not enough, then how about this: he has a daughter with a genius intellect . . . and a "good grip"."

That did it. "How'd he know that?"

The Lieutenant looked towards the Cap. with concern. "What was that?"

"Nothing, just thinking out loud." David shrugged off, but still.

"If you want more: two guys in there are thinking go going to a Strip-Club called "**Magpie's**", the Lieutenant divorced her husband when he laid a "finger" on her one too many times, soldier boy here is still accusing me being affiliated with the SoA, and you Dr. . . . it involves your resentment of street gangs . . . and what happened to your son. But I won't go into detail, because it's personal, not my place to say."

The Dr. stared at the bound young man in surprise. "H-how did you . . ?"

"You're wondering how I know what I just said, well, let's put it this way: it's been said that the average human only uses ten percent of their brain." Griff elaborated. "But what if I told you that that's only a cover-up, shall I continue."

Though every law enforcement wanted to protest, Dr. Holt spoke up. "Go ahead."

"Well, sometimes it's the case, but in truth; the average human being has countless upon countless thoughts that go through their minds per second. And I can hear those thoughts; in my head."

"So you would have us believe that you are . . . Telepathic?"

"Like a mind reader, get real." The officer quickly dismissed.

"Well, let's put it this way." Griff mused, then did something no one would ever suspect. _Does this prove my claim? _

Everyone nearly jumped back in shock; they heard this guy talking, but his lips weren't even moving! Whether everyone losing their minds, or was this guy messing with their heads, no one knew for sure. The Cap. wanted to pull the plug on the whole interrogation, yet the more they had divulged, the more everyone was starting to become interested from what the bound young man was telling them. Yeah, what he was saying was insane, psychotic at the most, but to know things that weren't even discussed wasn't even said aloud. Unless he had a hidden device on him, which was more than unlikely, that made it sound like he was talking without moving his lips. But how could they explain everyone in the observation room hearing the same thing as if he were standing right next to them?

"My story actually starts with be behind bars, ironically, but last year . . . it started to become seriously screwed up."

* * *

**Neo-Gotham: 2038 - 4 Years Earlier**

Gathering around to watch as two individuals were fighting, and cheered them on to tear each other apart was a group of pre-teen to young-adult youths in a field that appeared to be a prison like area; Juvenile Hall. The two in the middle of all the commotion were, like everyone around, were both teenage boys, one the age of seventeen and the other the age of fifteen. The older of the two was a younger Griff, wearing a black T-shirt with the logo "NGDC" (which was short for Neo-Gotham Detention Center), baggy cargo pants, and brown boots. His opponent, as well as the crowd around them, wore the same clothing, though the younger boy was shorter with pale skin, short ebony black hair, and hade piercing blue eyes. The two circled each other in a fighting stance, smirking at each other arrogantly with a few cuts and bruises covering their faces waiting for one to make the first move. Tired of waiting, the younger of the two rushed at the older opponent. Soon as he was close enough, he tried to strike with a jump snap-kick, only for Griff to catch the foot, then leg sweep the other. As the younger of the two hit the floor, the older performed an axe-kick, but the younger rolled away and back-kicked his opponent in the gut. Seeing the older buckle forward winded, though it was hard to tell since he never showed signs of being in pain, the younger round-kicked him to the face and jumped to his feet when his opponent merely rolled to the side. The younger tried once again to land a hit on his opponent by throwing another punch, only for the older to spin with the fist, then struck with a backfist the caused him to stumble back a bit

"Getting tired, **McGinnis**?" Griff smirked mockingly.

"I'm just getting started!" The younger boy grinned.

The two were just about to continue on with their little match, when guards appeared to disperse the crowd and forcibly separate and restrain the two combatants.

The lead guard, a tall African-American, stepped forward and scrutinized the two distastefully. "You two were warned about this. Lock them up in Solitary!"

The two male youths shared a glance and shrugged as they were led away, this was quite common for the two and not really that big of a deal; neither one was claustrophobic or afraid of the dark. Though it would be hard to believe, these two actually got along just fine, despite all the bumping and bruising they were sharing. They weren't exactly best friends, but the were on friendly terms of having each others back. You just had to look beyond their competitive streaks. Griff met the younger boy, **Terrence McGinnis** (preferred to be called "**Terry**"), years ago when he was no older than thirteen. He got in trouble with the wrong goon and was outnumbered three to one when the goon's thuggish friends decided to overpower him. Griff came to the rescue, and was able to fend of the three as he had done for years in Juve. Though the younger boy claimed he didn't need anyone's help, but was thankful when Griff arrived. Each time Terry was thrown into Juve, it always involved him getting into fights and sending those he fought to the hospital. Though Griff grew mainly in an orphanage and Juve, he saw McGinnis as a sort of little brother, even making a rule that he was the only one to pummel hin up. While walking to Solitary, they heard a guard passing by some cells.

"Ramis, Coburn, Jones; congrats, someone's paying your bail!"

Looking to the cells, three boys that appeared to be Griff's age walked out of a single cell and exchanged glares with the two as they passed by. The first guy was African-American with short black hair and Amber-brown eyes, the second was Caucasian with a bald head and dark-green eyes, and the third, who was a hulking muscular behemoth, had short dark-brown hair and scaly teal eyes. The Afro-American was known as Reginald Ramis, or "Reggie", and the bald guy his best friend Kyle Coburn. They were both known for committing several accounts of domestic violence, theft and robbery, and even disturbing the peace to get a name for themselves. But that all failed in comparison to what the taller youth had done over the years; all of which were unspeakable and some accounts state he nearly kill a lot of people whenever he lost his temper . . . or talk about his father. Yes, it was true, this guy was the most feared out of anyone locked up, even some of the guards feared him a bit. Griff wasn't scared of this thug and neither was Terry, but the big guy always seemed to favor pushing around anyone younger than himself without anyone aiding him. One mistake that was avoidable was that you never mention the word crocodile . . . to **Waylon Jones Jr**.

* * *

On their way to the meeting area, a guard from the girl's side led a young African-American girl through the hallway and caught up with the three. Her name was Teresa Gregor, the fouth member in Waylon's "entourage" who always used her looks to sucker a poor sap before she took something from him. Yes, it was true, these four would commit these acts to make names for themselves. In the meeting area stood a tall man wearing all black, when the four were seated, they saw that he had the most unusual appearance they had ever seen: besides the short black hair that was neatly trimmed and thin moustache on his upper lip, he had very pale skin were completely black eyes with Amber-green that had animalistic slits. His size didn't make his appearance any less intimidating as he was six in-a-half feet tall.

The man gave a smile and spoke in a heavily English accent "Good evening, my name is Dr. **Abel Cuvier**-"

"Da Splicer guy?" Waylon asked in a Cajun accent.

"The very same, and I suppose you're all wondering why I am paying for your release."

"Damn straight!" Ramis sneered.

"Not that we don't appreciate the gesture, but why would you pay our bail?" Kyle asked, suspicious of the nearly animalistic man.

Cuvier went into though when he heard that question. "Excellent question, to answer simply, I'll ask you this: you all wish to make names for yourselves, is that correct?"

"What's it to you if we are?" Teresa demanded.

Cuvier put up both hands. "I'm only curious, especially seeing that some of you have problems with everyday life." His slit eyes fell upon Waylon. ". . . And _family_ . . ."

The hulking youth snarl as soon as he heard the word "family", stood up and was about to get into the Dr.'s face when Kyle stopped him.

"Whoa, easy there, Waylon. I don't think this guy was trying to bring up . . . bad memories."

"Listen, doc, I wouldn't mention "family" around our friend." Teresa stated.

"Yeah, he hates it when people talk about his . . . dad." Ramis added carefully.

"I didn't mean to bring up personal matter, but anyway, allow me to continue. What if I told you that I can make that a possibility?"

"Doubt it, but tell us anyway." Ramis said.

"Well, my studies in splicing, as mentioned before, has allowed me to "rearrange" characteristics of the human body. As you could see here, many have embraced these changes."

Cuvier took out a small device, then pressed a button as holographic images show of people with many anthropomorphic appearances, some more animal than human, and others only on small parts. After seeing a few images of girls withe feline or canine characteristics brought raised eyebrows and small smirks on the faces. So far, they all liked what they were seeing, but why was this guy showing them this?

"Looks awesome, but why show us this?" Kyle asked.

Waylon was wondering the same thing. "Yeah, wut dat hav to do wit us?"

The smile never left the thin man's lips. "As mentioned before, you want to make names for yourselves and I've stated that they can become possibilities. To simply put it: I ask if you would like to join me in my little crusade."

"Crusade?" Teresa cocked an eyebrow.

It came to Kyle instantly. "Wait, you-you want us to become Splicers?"

"Of course, it's dome my well-being wonders." Cuvier replied gesturing his entire form.

"Why?" Waylon questioned.

"You see, I wish to make splicing a way of life, I wish to make history and to be memorized as the man who created a new lifestyle. Not just a "fad" or a "phase", but something that will truly change history for the better; something that is very beautiful, but reversible if needed. You will all have jobs that I am most certain you will be satisfied with and enjoy to no end. I'll be more than willing to share my fame, if you're willing to accept working at my company."

"What company?" Ramis questioned.

"The **Chimera Institute**." Cuvier replied and held out a hand. "Do we have a deal."

The four looked at the man before them, then began to converse among each other; they had to get a few things straight before they knew what they were agreeing too. This guy, a Doctor even, wanted to hire them and give them jobs at some sort of science institute, which begged one question: why? The four of them were street trash who would usually steal valuables and get into fights just because they wanted to prove how tough they were or just to let out some steam.

"What if we say "no"?" Ramis questioned.

"I will respect your decision and be on my way. Though as soon as I leave, you will all be sent to prison, seeing as you're all near the age of eighteen."

"What benefits will we get?" Kyle asked.

"A vast quantity." Cuvier replied, his had still outstretched.

The four shared another look at one another, then smirked and nodded; leading Waylon to walk up to the animalistic man and look him straight in the feral-slit eye.

"Doc, you gotcha a deal." With that said, their hands shook in agreement. "So, wen do we staat?"

Cuvier smirked at the youth's eagerness, his eyes gleaming. "Immediately."

* * *

It had been one week since being in solitary confinement and it was time for Terry to be released as he was doing some push-ups to kill the time that he had left locked up. Both he and Griff were in the TV area where other teens were either talking to one another or playing board games to pass the time besides getting into fights. As much as he enjoyed knocking out someone else's teeth, he also enjoyed some time to just "mellow out", especially if it involved TV. Seeing that no one else was around

"_And in other news: yet another message from the notorious gang called the "Sons of Anarky" was broadcast not too long ago. Only this time, the message was addressed by the leader if the Sons of Anarky himself; Alexander Machin._"

Images change to a dark room where a group of people in white masks and wearing red, white, and blue outfits stood. One of the figures that stood out was a shirtless man with an anarchist "A" shaped scare engraved into his well-muscled chest. He only wore a pair of black cargo pants and a pair of metal-rimmed combat boots. The person himself was a muscular and utterly handsome (in some sense if you were female) and appeared to be in his early thirties with olive-colored skin, wavy blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. As mentioned before, this person was the leader of the SoA and son of Lonnie Machin, the founder and original Anarky; Alexander Machin. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, Alexander was much like his father and just as dedicated to his actions. Protesting and rioting wasn't enough, but destroying things that were "corrupt". Though not as brutish as the Ts, insane as the Jokerz, or even murderous as the Knightbreed; the Sons of Anarky were highly intelligent, despite 1/4 of the entire gang was made of _homeless_. Though it was called the _Sons_ of Anarky, there was plenty of members that were female. No, these people were _much_ worse than the three put together. This gang was more like a cult and practically worshiped the original Anarky as a god. A lot of the most dedicated members even had the same symbol branded on their chests to show how loyal they were to their "brothers and sisters". Another thing to know about Machin that he wasn't camera-shy and would show his face from time to time.

"_Neo-Blüdhaven, Neo-Gotham, we are the Sons of Anarky; the Voices of the People-_" The rest of the statement was muted.

"Spare me." Griff scoffed, changing the channel to watch cartoons. "Channel 544, please."

What could be said? Cartoons are both funny and entertaining at the same time with their zaniness, especially if they're Warner Brothers.

Terry noticed the older teen's displeasure. "What you got against the new."

Griff held up three fingers. "One: It was boring, _Dos_: there's never anything worth watching, and _Trois_: I'd sooner rather dunk my head in boiling olive oil then listen to another "Voice of the People" crap." He laughed after watching Daffy Duck noticing he "wasn't" himself. "Plus, this is way _more_ entertaining."

"Got me there." The younger teen laughed. "So, where're you going after your time's up here?"

"Well, believe it or not, a nun from the orphanage has a friend at a law firm and agreed to give me a job; ironic?"

"Tell me about it. You're the last person I'd expect to land something like that, but good luck any way."

A guard walked into the area before anything else could be said. "Griffin! It's time."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming!" Griff replied, but smirked at the only person that was close to being a friend. "Better not get soft on my; I will come looking for you."

"Right back at ya!" Terry returned a smirk then playfully punched Griff the arm. "Don't die on me, you masochist."

* * *

**Neo**-**Blüdhaven**: **2041 - 1 Year Earlier**

It had been three years since Griff was released and miraculously having kept his clean slate, was doing fine work in Neo-Blüdhaven, the less crime infested yet equally dangerous sibling city of Neo-Gotham. It was with sheer luck, if not a miracle, that he was able to land a job anywhere; let alone Neo-Blüdhaven Mop in hand, he continued to wipe down the hallway. It wasn't an ideal job, but it was better than being homeless. He was even more thankful the head nun from the orphanage was kind enough to land him here, even if it were just across the bridge. After seven hours of mopping/sweeping the floor, and making sure the restrooms were in order, it was time to go back to the place was currently living. Conveniently, it was actually more than it appeared to be on the outside than it did inside; he wasn't going to let just _anyone_ know that though. Pushing his hover compactor to another room, Griff hear the distinct sound of footsteps in one of the rooms to his left.

Knowing that it was too late for anyone else to be around at this late hour, the blonde youth snuck up to the door, then had it cracked open a bit. Just as he suspected, a figure wearing all black, a few gadgets around his upper body, and a pair of night vision goggles. This guy was seated in front of one of the computers with a small rectangular device right next to the hard drive. He more than likely someone who was a little too curious for his own good and the device was something he was using for hacking the system. Since he had a gun with him, he was the one to use senseless violence. Seeing as their was a lack of security guards or droids around, he decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Can I see your I.D., sir?" Griff asked, startling the intruder.

The black clad figure attempt to reach for something, but was beaten to the punch when he was suddenly grabbed by the wrist, then pulled back. No sooner had the figure realized what had happened, he became winded when the young adult punched him in the gut. He proceeded to kick behind the knee, making the figure buckle to the ground, then elbow him in the chest, which rendered him on the ground; unconscious. Making sure the hacker was out for the count, Griff dragged his body out of the room, place him on the hover compactor, then went on to search for a security guard.

"Tanaga, I don't normally say this to jut anyone. So don't get use to it." Griff mumbled, but smirked a bit. ". . . Thanks."

* * *

**And here starts the beginning of another future DC (technically [formerly] Wildstorm) fic, hope it was to everyone's liking, especially Nomad88. I truly hope I didn't make Terry OOC, I sometimes have a hard time trying to make characters as true as I can. If anyone spots anything out, do _not_ hesitate to send me a PM; I need all the help I can get. Well, if that's all there is to do, have a good one.**


End file.
